On The Clock

Margaret Miller leaned on the glass counter of Élan Intimates, chewing the inside of her cheek and mentally counting down the minutes to her break.

The boutique was dead this time of day. Rich girls were either still out complaining about their caviar on toast or planning some fabulous night out, and the lonely husbands who came in trying to impress their mistresses never showed after five. So she was stuck here, alone in a temple of lace and mesh and garters, surrounded by mannequins in sexier outfits than she'd worn in weeks.

Adjusting her name tag—crooked again—she glanced over at the group that had wandered in about twenty minutes ago. Four of them. All gorgeous. Too gorgeous. The kind of group that looked like they walked into a room and immediately rearranged the social order just by existing.

Margaret didn't mind watching them. She definitely didn't mind.

She clocked them fast. Tall blonde—money, clearly. Brunette with almond eyes and cheekbones that could cut glass—probably her best friend. The South Asian girl lagging behind—cute, but shy. Then the older one. Hot. Red lipstick, gold bangles, attitude. Cougar energy. Margaret loved a cougar.

They’d come in loud, high energy, laughing about something that had happened on the way to the mall. Margaret had half-expected them to just browse, maybe giggle at the crotchless teddies, then leave.

But then they'd started grabbing items. Dozens of them. All for the quiet one.

Every now and then, their voices filtered in clearly enough to catch snippets.

"You seriously don't know how hot you are, do you?" That was the blonde—Madison, Margaret had heard her called.

"Your ass in this is going to make Joey insane," added the brunette—Aynsley, or Ashley, or something like that, "If you want, that is." She sounded like money. Spoiled. Mean girl energy, but charming in a way that worked.

The quiet one, the South Asian one, held up a black lace set like it might bite her. "I don't think I can pull this off," she said softly.

"Oh my god, of course you can," said the older woman—Donna. Her voice dripped confidence. "The real question is if Joey is going to pull it off of you first, or are you going to pull him off first?"

They all dissolved in a fit of giggles.

Joey. Who was this Joey they all seemed into?

Margaret tuned back out, adjusting one of the mannequins near the window. If she heard one more girl gush about her straight boy crush, she might scream. All these boys were the same. Big, meaty, hairy guys. Bigger shoulders than brains. She pictured this Joey—tall, broad, smug—using his size to make them feel things they really should’ve been able to give themselves.

From the register, she stole another glance. Indira stood in front of the three-panel mirror at the back of the store, shoulders hunched as she held a sheer, barely-there babydoll against herself. Madison was behind her, fixing her hair, while Aynsley crouched and gestured at how the hem would frame her thighs.

"God, Joey's going to die," Aynsley said. "Can you imagine? He's going to literally lose his mind."

Donna chuckled. "That's the idea, darling."

Margaret rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

The girls moved like they owned the place—like the world bent around their will. It was annoying, but in a hot way. The way they treated Indira was interesting too—less mean girl hazing, more like... grooming. Not in a creepy way. More like they were inducting her into some elite club of sexy, loyal girlfriends. What she would give to get into that group, to sink her teeth into them. Her mind played a quick fantasy of the older one and the blonde, in Margaret's apartment, strawberries, whipped cream, and leather straps...

By the time the group dumped their haul on the counter, it was enough lace, satin, and mesh to outfit a lingerie runway show.

Margaret blinked. "All of this?"

The older one nodded. "All of it."

The South Asian blushed. "I—I can't let you—"

"Don't even start, babe," the rich brunette said, slapping a red silk slip down with dramatic flair. "This is for the party. And for your future. It's time you started seeing yourself for how hot you are. It's important."

Margaret raised an eyebrow but rang up the pile.

The girls all reached for their purses at once.

"I've got it," Madison said.

"No, I do," the brunette argued, holding up a black Amex like it was a mic drop.

"Put your cards away, babies," the cougar said, and laid hers on the counter with a crisp, satisfying slap. "I said I had it."

Margaret gave her a low whistle. "You're either a very good friend or a very lucky man's sugar mama."

"Little bit of both."

Another round of giggles.

With the sale bagged and the receipt printed, Margaret passed it across the counter.

As they turned to leave, she couldn't help but admire the way they walked. Four stunning women, hips swaying like they were choreographed, each one a lesson in confidence.

As the glass door swung open, one of them called out, "Shoes!"

The door closed behind them, and Margaret exhaled.

"God bless straight girls," she muttered, then bent to rearrange a display of lace boyshorts, still smiling.